


Poutine

by sloganeer



Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [6]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Canadian Character, Canon Queer Character, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: “They haven’t fixed the gravy,” David explains. He spears a cheese curd and a fry, then holds up the bite for Patrick to take.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686322
Comments: 14
Kudos: 133





	Poutine

David texted around 10 to ask Patrick for a little more time. He has mornings like this sometimes, and Patrick knows the best thing for his husband is time, just as he requested. A weekday morning, a little grey and dreary outside, so there isn't as much foot traffic as usual. Patrick uses the quiet time to catch up their books and start on the monthly inventory.

Then David texts again, around noon. The buzz in his pocket gives Patrick a tiny heart attack, but when he reads David’s message, it makes him smile.

 _Hey handsome_ , David has written. _Can I buy you lunch?_

He's already eating at their regular booth by the time Patrick locks up and crosses the street to the Café. A French fry is sticking out the side of David’s mouth when Patrick leans down to kiss him.

“I thought you were buying me lunch,” he says.

Patrick uses his hips to nudge David because he wants to sit together. He wants to feel the warmth from knee to shoulder. He wants to pet David’s sweater, and he wants to be close when David’s hands go flailing about.

On the mornings David comes to the store late, he wants one of two things: to hide in the backroom or to attach himself to Patrick and refuse to let go. Patrick is hoping today is a day like the latter. He’s feeling fragile, too—and he doesn't know how to tell David.

“They haven’t fixed the gravy,” David explains. He spears a cheese curd and a fry, then holds up the bite for Patrick to take. “But Twyla is buying Heather’s curds now, and I told George to triple fry the chips.”

Patrick chews and nods. It’ll never be as good as the poutine they ate from that truck in Quebec City, but David’s right—Café Tropical's poutine is certainly better than it was before.

He accepts another bite from David's fork, and as David returns to digging the cheese curds out from under the mess of fries, Patrick leans his head down on his husband's shoulder. He rubs his cheek against the soft fleece and lays a firm hand on David's thigh. There's no way he's getting out of this booth without Patrick's permission, not until he can be sure David is OK.

He can't ask. That's not how David's brain works. Patrick is the one who needs the gentle push to say what's running around in his head. He's the one who needs David to poke until the truth comes out. David needs space and time, like this morning.

David offers Patrick one more bite, and then he lays the fork down on the table. He lays his hand over Patrick's, so Patrick stacks his free hand on top, and then David counters, and they laugh at the scene they must make.

Except no one cares. No one is watching them. Bob is at the counter with a doughnut, and Twyla is making the rounds with a fresh pot of coffee. Patrick and David are that old married couple who sit on the same side of a booth.

"I'm ready to order lunch now," David says. Their hands fall apart as he pushes the soggy fries to the edge of the table.

"I thought that was it."

"Excuse you." David pokes Patrick's shoulder, perhaps harder than he meant. Patrick flinches and plays up the frown until David kisses him better. "That was the appetizer," he says. "Now I need a hamburger."


End file.
